


Rather Be

by kriadydragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's been drugged. Gwaine is there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rather Be

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Mentions of non-consensual drugging and self-harm.

Gwaine had forgotten why it was he liked to wander, and why he never liked sticking around and making the kinds of attachments that _made_ you want to stick around. But he remembered, now, as he held a shivering and madly muttering Merlin - curled like a child having a nightmare against his chest - and wondering if Merlin was going to die. You didn’t have to worry about things like death and sorrow when you kept moving, floating from town to town and making friends for the sake of a day’s worth of company and nothing more. Moving on didn’t _hurt_.

Merlin’s heart was rapid in a way no heart should be, beating through the fragile cage of Merlin’s bones and against Gwaine’s arm. Gwaine had gotten to the boy just as that cult of heavily tattooed sorcerers or evil druids or whatever they were had finished pouring a black concoction down Merlin’s throat, but before they had a chance to stick a knife in his chest. 

And Gwaine hadn’t thought of the concoction because he’d been more worried about the knife and finding a nice cave or ruin (ruin, as it turned out) to hide in. He’d completely forgotten about the bloody elixir, even when Merlin had started muttering nonsense. Then they found refuge through the hole in the old castle ruins, and Gwaine had barely followed after Merlin when Merlin tore away his jacket, shirt and neckerchief to rip at his skin, and Gwaine had to gather him up and hold him down to stop him (but not before blood had been drawn on Merlin’s arms, chest and back). Merlin had kicked and struggled, wild as a cat but weak as a lamb. And now he huddled quaking, rocking and sobbing against Gwaine’s chest.

With not a bloody thing Gwaine could do about it except cradle Merlin and croon pointless reassurances landing on deaf ears.

“The shadows,” Merlin whimpered. “The shadows keep laughing. It hurts.”

Gwaine shushed him gently, rubbing his back that was knobby and ridged with bones. Merlin’s ribcage pumped like an overworked bellows, gasping with each inhale, whimpering with each exhale. 

“The shadows won’t touch you, mate,” Gwaine said. “I won’t let them.”

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath and let it out on a sob. Gwaine held him tighter, and tried not to cry himself. 

It had been a while since Gwaine had cried for anyone. Not since his dad, but he’d been a child at the time. Not for his ma; he’d been too angry at everyone and everything and the unfairness of it all to cry. He’d attacked a tree with a sword instead. He hadn’t cried for Lancelot, trying to be too bloody stoic at the time, then pissed-off-his-arse drunk afterwards. Besides, Merlin had wept enough tears for the lot of them, and had still made sure Gwaine had gotten home safe. Because that was Merlin, with his pup-dog eyes and devotion and heart as big as a bloody mountain; dying in Gwaine’s bloody arms, because Gwaine didn’t know what to do.

And Gwaine suddenly wished he’d never met the scrawny bastard, because Merlin was good at making people care, and right now Gwaine didn’t want to care. It hurt too much to care. Like a knife to the chest.

Merlin’s next whimper was strangled, his shoulders hunching up to his ears as if trying to cover them. 

“They won’t stop,” he said. “They won’t stop, they won’t.”

“It’s okay, Merlin,” Gwaine said, his voice cracking. He swallowed thickly. “It’ll stop, I promise.”

“Don’t go,” Merlin wailed softly. His voice was weak.

Gwaine held him tighter. “Not going anywhere, mate.”

~oOo~

Gwaine hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he woke with a startled jerk, flailing feebly and panicking over the weight draped across his lap. He blinked several times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gray morning light pouring wet and cold from the cracks in the wall.

His memory returned like a slap to the face, and his gaze quickly dropped down to the pile of skin and bones curled, shivering, in his lap. But shivering wasn’t enough. Gwaine dug his fingers into Merlin’s neck with enough force to bruise. 

There, a pulse, rapid but steady. Gwaine tilted his head back and released a sharp huff of relieved breath, and patted the cool, pale shoulder.

“Don’t scare me like that,” he said with a chuckle. He looked back down at Merlin and sighed at the bruises splotching his skin and his constant shaking. The lad was so blasted skinny it was a miracle he hadn’t frozen to death overnight. Gwaine gently and slowly moved Merlin from his lap, freeing Gwaine to reach for Merlin’s shirt. He used the same care to maneuver Merlin’s floppy limbs through the sleeves, and as he dressed him, the boy stirred. 

Gwaine tugged the shirt down around Merlin’s thin waist. When that was done, he lightly patted the boy on the cheek.

“Merlin, mate, you with me on this fine day? Please say you’re with me?”

Merlin opened eyes that refused to be anything but dazed and confused no matter how many times the bruised lids fluttered. But he didn’t flail, nor try to tear his own skin off, and that was a blessed improvement as far as Gwaine was concerned. 

“Can you move? We need to get going while we can.”

Merlin shifted. He attempted to push himself up on shaky arms only for his arms to give out and drop him back to the ground. Gwaine took him by the armpits and sat him upright, if it could be called upright the way Merlin’s body wobbled like a green stalk. He was like a rag doll – no, a puppet with mismatched strings and liquid for limbs. And he was just as compliant and loose as Gwaine both helped and coaxed him through the hole, the kid saying nothing as though everything that made him Merlin had been gutted and thrown aside, and for some reason that frightened Gwaine more than the madness.

Gwaine followed after Merlin quickly, Merlin’s jacket and neckerchief bundled under his arm instead in case Merlin was hit with another fit of clothes-and-skin-tearing madness. Merlin had nearly strangled himself just trying to get the neckerchief off.

Merlin was huddled in the crook where what was left of an old tower joined the wall, and at first seemed to be asleep. But when Gwaine scooted around to face Merlin, his eyes were half-lidded but open. 

“Come on, mate,” Gwaine said. He stood, then taking Merlin under the arms, helped him to his feet. The boy wobbled worse than he had when on his knees, but eventually found enough balance to stay up and move if he leaned against Gwaine. Gwaine wrapped his arm around Merlin’s shoulders, keeping him close.

They didn’t walk so much as hobble, with Gwaine taking most of Merlin’s weight. Gwaine strained his eyes and ears in search of danger, but the only sights were the trees and the moss, and the only sounds the birds and Merlin’s unsteady, ragged breathing. 

Gwaine’s ears did eventually pick up the babbling of a brook. He made straight for it, remembering Gaius once mentioning something about people being drugged and having them drink plenty of water to flush the drugs from the blood. It wasn’t a large brook, but it was clear as glass and deep enough in places to scoop a good handful. Gwaine had had a flask of mead, but he’d left it on the horse when he went chasing after Merlin and the tattooed sorcerers. He’d meant to surprise Merlin with his company, maybe a bit of fishing and a break from all of Merlin’s herb picking and chores, but had arrived to Merlin’s panicked shouts and the sorcerers babbling spells.

Gwaine carefully lowered Merlin to the soft, mossy ground next to the brook. 

Merlin wavered, staring with empty eyes at the water, but stayed upright. He looked so bloody lost, so vulnerable, in only his too-large shirt, the collar wide open baring his collarbones to the world. Gwaine had assumed Merlin’s gaze empty, but a closer look showed not emptiness but confusion and something like hesitant fear, as if he knew he needed to be afraid but didn’t know why.

“Here, Merlin, drink this,” Gwaine side. He tipped his cupped hands to Merlin’s lips, and Merlin obeyed, taking the water slowly at first then more quickly as it trickled into his mouth. 

Gwaine thought of Merlin alone in the ruins, tearing his skin as he screamed and sobbed. He thought of Merlin crawling from the hole, covered in blood and shaky as a newborn fawn unable to stand, and when finally able to stand wobbling just as weakly lost and confused, with no one to keep him upright and guide him to water.

Except none of that would have been, because Merlin would have been dead with a knife buried in his heart, perhaps cut from his chest for whatever twisted, insane ritual the tattooed sorcerers had been performing. 

A cold sickness settled in Gwaine’s gut, making him feel suddenly exposed, because those sorcerers could still be out there, still hoping to finish what they had started with Merlin.

And there Merlin sat, weak and helpless and easy for the taking.

Gwaine quickly poured more water down Merlin’s throat. He then took Merlin’s arm, pulled it across his shoulders and lifted Merlin to his feet.

“Come on, mate. We’re going home, you and me. Those bloody sorcerers’ll lay their hands on you over my dead body. Well, their dead bodies when I’m finished with them. Nobody’s touching you, mate. I’ll gut ‘em before they so much as had a chance to look at you.”

Merlin continued to say nothing, but pressed against Gwaine as a younger brother might when seeking safety from an older brother.

Gwaine nearly wept with relief when they stumbled onto a familiar path, the one to the lake, and he laughed in relief when he came upon his horse nibbling on the spring grass. He had to lift Merlin like a child to get him into the saddle when Merlin’s weakening legs refused to raise high enough to get into the stirrup. He climbed on behind Merlin, and steered the horse toward Camelot.

~oOo~

It was a tincture, Gaius had said, meant to make ones passing less than easy, because there was a belief that fear made a spell more potent (which Gaius then muttered, with much heat, something about it being complete rubbish). Merlin would be fine, if a little weak for a few days and unable to eat much until his stomach settled.

Arthur, of course, had reacted to Gwaine’s tale with righteous fury, and not because of magic users being within Camelot’s borders. He personally led the hunt for the bastards, but Gwaine was made to stay behind to rest. 

Since Gwaine hadn’t felt particularly tired, he wandered the castle, his mind haunted with the thoughts of Merlin stumbling around out there alone and terrified, or lying dead on an alter with black fluid leaking out of his mouth. He knew if he tried to sleep, he would dream about it and it would be worse. 

Finally his feet brought him to Gaius’ and he entered ready to receive the disappointing news that Merlin was still asleep.

“Actually he woke up some time ago,” Gaius said as he boiled herbs into medicine. “He’s still a bit groggy and dazed but able to hold a bowl of soup on his own. You can visit him if you’d like.”

Gwaine hurried up the short flight of steps to Merlin’s room. He knocked, then entered to find Merlin sitting upright against a pile of pillows, a small bowl cradled in one shaky hand while the other hand lifted the spoon with agonizing slowness to his lips. 

Then Merlin looked up, and said as though Gwaine were the most brilliant thing he’d ever seen, “Gwaine!” 

Merlin was pale verging on white, with dark circles beneath his eyes and an air of heavy fatigue about him. But he was awake and smiling, and his gaze was filled with everything that made him Merlin. 

Gwaine smiled back and settled himself on the small stool that had been left by the bed. “Glad to see you back with us. I’ll be honest, you gave me one hell of a scare out there.”

Merlin winced and, being Merlin, looked contritely down at his bowl. “Sorry. Herb picking usually isn’t that difficult. Well, except, maybe, where griffin’s are concerned.”

The statement had obviously been meant as a joke, but something melancholy passed over Merlin’s face. And Gwaine, knowing the story about the griffin, knew that he was remembering Lancelot. 

Gwaine clasp his shoulder. “Not your fault, mate. Evil tattooed sorcerers happen, believe me. Remind me to tell you about the evil tattooed barmaid who tried to make off with my trousers. And I wasn’t even picking herbs at the time.”

Merlin’s smile returned like the clouds parting away from the sun. “It’s a good thing you were out… er… doing whatever you were doing.”

“Planning to kidnap you for an impromptu fishing trip, actually. ‘Til the evil sorcerers decided to pop in.”

Merlin nodded, rubbing the side of his head as though it pained him, which it probably did. Gaius said he would also have a headache for another day or two. 

“I kind of remember the sorcerers,” Merlin said. “It was all a bit of a blur, though.”

“Do you remember what happened after?” Gwaine asked curiously.

Merlin’s brow furrowed and eyes squinted thoughtfully. “No. Not really. Well… I think I remember some things but it’s all like a dream. It could have been a dream, actually. Worst nightmare I ever had, though.”

He then brightened and looked at Gwaine. “Your voice was there,” he said, like it was something to be proud of. “I know that. It made me feel less afraid, I think…”

Moisture filled Merlin’s eyes, making them shine. He was silent, and for a moment stared down at his bowl. 

“Thank you,” he said thickly, looking back to Gwaine. “You’re a good man, Gwaine. And a brilliant friend.”

And damn it all if Gwaine’s own eyes didn’t sting. He said, as jauntily as he could. “It was nothing. You know I’d save you from the mouth of hell itself in a heartbeat.”

He stayed with Merlin as Merlin finished his bowl of soup, taking it from him when he was done, then stayed until Merlin fell asleep and even after, in case he dreamed and the dreams weren’t pleasant. There was nowhere else Gwaine would rather be.

The End


End file.
